


Paint Me Beautiful

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Body Paint, First Time, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: <i> These are Brendon’s lyrics and random bits of thought, all scattered and winding around the pictures Brendon draws.  It’s like Spencer’s skin has become Brendon’s diary, spelling out all his innermost thoughts, all those things Brendon usually keeps so safely guarded until he deems them ready for public consumption.</i>  Also featuring the ever elusive top!Brendon!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Me Beautiful

Since Spencer’s really gotten into this jogging thing, he likes to take a different route every day. Brendon doesn’t put up a fight, and Spencer thinks Brendon goes along for the same reason Spencer picks them. There are all these places within ten minutes that they never knew existed, and it’s just cool, seeing their neighbourhood in a new light.

A few days ago they found a forest to the south of their development and have been exploring the paths to find an abandoned tree house, a duck pond, and a creepy grove with what looks like a stone alter. Today they’ve gone deeper to find a rock wall that stretches as far as they can see in either direction. 

“I bet that’s where that house with all those glass walls is,” Brendon says, craning his neck upwards to where the top of the wall ends, even with the middling branches of an oak tree. Spencer knows the house he’s referring to—in the evenings it’s all lit up with warm light and glitters in the distance, visible from their back yard, but they’ve never been able to find it in a car. 

Brendon starts to climb and being a fucking _monkey_ , makes it look easy. “You’re going to break your neck,” Spencer calls after him. 

“Then stay down there and catch me if I fall,” Brendon shouts back. 

Spencer curses under his breath and follows him. It isn’t actually as bad as he thought it’d be. The wall isn’t straight up, and there are enough handy rocks and outcroppings of roots that he doesn’t have a lot of trouble finding things to grab and pull himself up with. Brendon still beats him to the top, of course, and lets out a low whistle of awe. Spencer flops over the edge and Brendon grabs his arm to help him the rest of the way onto solid ground. 

They’re only halfway up, it turns out. There’s another wall, this one steeper, several feet back. Spencer’s legs and arms are rubbery from the run and the climb, though, and thankfully Brendon doesn’t seem interested in going any further. He’s fixated on the view. 

It is a nice view, Spencer thinks, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking out over the tops of the trees. They were running on a gradual incline, but Spencer didn’t realise how high they’d gone until now. Their suburb and beyond that, the city, stretches out in the early morning light, relatively still and silent due to the hour. Even further out, Spencer can see the distant dark of the ocean on the horizon. 

They sit together in silence for what is an impressively long time for Brendon. The sun rises higher, turning the sky pink and orange. Already Spencer can feel the oppressive humidity; it’s going to be a miserably hot day. 

“Hey,” Brendon says, breaking the stillness. He nudges Spencer in the side. “Give me something to write on.” 

Spencer gives him what he hopes is an appropriately bewildered expression. Then he spots the pen in Brendon’s hand. “Seriously? We’ve been jogging. Where am I supposed to have something to write on? Where the hell did you even get that?” 

Brendon looks at his pen as if that should be obvious. “I always carry a pen, in case of inspiration. You never know where it will strike, or when. Give me your arm.” 

Spencer could protest, but Brendon would win in the end, and Spencer actually doesn’t care. So he extends his arm and watches in amusement as Brendon begins writing out lyrics length-wise down his upper arm. He can’t really see the words, only the tips of the letters, but it’s still sort of neat to watch one of their potential songs taking form on his skin. 

Morning fully breaks before Brendon’s done. The pen is running out of ink, the words growing fainter further down his arm, and the tip hurts where Brendon pushes harder and harder on the inside of Spencer’s forearm. The skin turns white, then red, framing the words. Even upside down and in Brendon’s messy scrawl, Spencer can read _how the light catches in your eyes_ curving around his wrist. 

After Brendon’s finished, they walk along the ledge until they find a less steep incline to go back down. Brendon refuses to let Spencer jog on the way back so he won’t sweat away all Brendon’s hard work. Spencer keeps catching the ink out of the corner of his eye, and it’s disconcerting the first several times, wondering what he’s got on him. 

At home, Brendon sits Spencer down and copies the entire thing to his lyric book. He walks off to the music room chewing on his pen and humming under his breath. Spencer’s a little curious. He could look in the mirror and probably figure it out, but Brendon gets weird about people seeing his lyrics before he’s one-hundred percent happy with them (thank you Ryan Ross). Spencer can be patient. 

In the shower, Spencer scrubs, but the ink doesn’t entirely fade. Once he’s dressed, several lines stretch down from elbow to wrist, too pale to be read, but clearly shaping words. Spencer gives himself a rueful smile in the mirror and thinks of how many of their fans would pay good money to have Brendon’s lyrics hand-written on them by the man himself. 

*

The lyrics fade entirely a couple days later, and Spencer’s arm feels oddly naked without them. He’s never wanted a tattoo, still doesn’t. But he’ll be playing a game, or making food, or drumming, and he catches a glimpse of his arm and thinks _something’s missing_. 

They’re curled up on the sofa, reruns of _Friends_ playing on the television. Neither of them is paying attention; Brendon’s working in his lyric book and Spencer’s reading a novel that Crystal recommended to him. 

Brendon isn’t really writing so much as chewing on his pen and scowling at the page full of words. Spencer’s waiting for him to start complaining that he sucks and that Spencer should go beg Ryan to take him back. Spencer _loves_ those moods. 

But Brendon doesn’t have his normal meltdown. He picks up Spencer’s hand and Spencer watches in silence while Brendon turns his hand over and over before finally settling it on his knee, palm up. The ink comes more easily from the felt-tip pen when Brendon presses it to Spencer’s wrist. It feels more like being tickled than scratched, and Spencer fights the urge to squirm. 

Later, they go out with Shane and Regan. It’s only halfway through dinner, when Regan spots the words peeking out from the cuff of his hoodie, that Spencer realises he didn’t wash it off. This ink should be much easier to rinse than the ballpoint Brendon used before, but Spencer sort of doesn’t mind.

*

It sort of maybe becomes this thing. Spencer isn’t really sure _why_ Brendon does it, and he doesn’t ask. He also doesn’t protest when Brendon sits on the floor with a bunch of Crayola markers and starts drawing on Spencer’s shin while he’s playing _Call of Duty_. He makes all sorts of little sketches—trees and flowers, random eyes, swirling lines, weird geometric patterns, and little birds flying up towards Spencer’s knee. 

At some point Spencer stops paying attention to his game and his character dies a bloody death, but he barely registers the rumbling of his controller. He finds it interesting, watching it take shape, trying to figure out what Brendon’s drawing after only a couple lines. It’s soothing, too, like someone playing with his hair, the delicate swipe of the felt against his skin, the moment of tingling cool _wet_ before the ink dries. 

After a particularly complex snowflake on the side of Spencer’s calf, Brendon leans in to blow gently on the ink, stirring the hair. There’s nothing sexy about it, but the sensation sends sparks skittering up the back of Spencer’s thigh and hips, and his muscles contract in anticipation. He lays his head against the back of the couch and draws in a deep breath, closes his eyes because he needs to get a fucking grip. 

Brendon’s writing words, now. Maybe it’s the orientation of them, or maybe because he’s writing in larger letters than with the pen, but Spencer can make some of them out by the shape they make against his skin. _– n – d – o – n –_

“Are you writing your _name_ on me?” Spencer asks, with no particular intonation. 

“Signing my handiwork,” Brendon tells him. Then he shifts slightly and starts on Spencer’s other leg. Somewhere in the middle of the Brendon composing lyrics over Spencer’s ankle, Spencer drifts off to sleep. 

*

Spencer’s arms, legs, hands, and feet are perpetually covered these days. Some of the ink is a few hours old, some a few days, the faintest barely more than a shadow. The first time Dallon and Ian come over to practice they give Spencer all kind of shit about it. Brendon is entirely unapologetic in the face of Spencer’s exasperation, like he’s got some sort of right to Spencer’s skin. They all drag him out to dinner that night anyway, not letting him change into jeans, and Spencer forgets to be embarrassed an hour later, anyway. 

Now…now, well, there’s something about it that makes his chest clench whenever he catches a glimpse and really thinks about it. These are Brendon’s lyrics and random bits of thought, all scattered and winding around the pictures Brendon draws. It’s like Spencer’s skin has become Brendon’s diary, spelling out all his innermost thoughts, all those things Brendon usually keeps so safely guarded until he deems them ready for public consumption. 

Spencer doesn’t read them, other than snatches here and there. Brendon hasn’t told him he can’t, but maybe that’s the whole point. Spencer could pick up Brendon’s notebook at any time, too, but never has. If Brendon’s testing him in someway, Spencer isn’t going to break his trust, now. 

Besides, and maybe it’s a ridiculous thought, but Spencer doesn’t feel the need to read them. As if the ink’s soaked into his skin and permeated his blood, it’s as if Spencer knows the lyrics, in an innate way, with an intimacy that no one other than Brendon and himself ever will. 

He notices Brendon watching him all the time, with this speculative gleam in his eyes, and with something else Spencer can’t quite place (or maybe isn’t really ready to think about). His gaze traces the letters that he’s scrawled over Spencer’s skin, and it’s like Spencer can feel them being written all over again. 

*

Panic! has a concert in China in three days, but they’re flying out in the morning. A courier already came by to pick up their bags and their instruments and take them to the airport, so there’s nothing left to do. Spencer’s both anxious and excited. They’re practiced and ready, but it’s still been a while since they’ve played, and he’s really ready to get to it. 

They’re stretched out on the sofa, Spencer’s legs in Brendon’s lap, watching a documentary on ancient Egypt, and Brendon’s fingers keep twitching against Spencer’s knee. It tickles a little, makes Spencer’s leg jerk and he finally reaches out and lays his hand over top of Brendon’s. Brendon shakes him off and Spencer holds his breath as Brendon palms Spencer’s knee. His fingers tap against the inside of Spencer’s thigh and then start to creep higher, moving in cursive script, too fast for Spencer to keep up with. 

Spencer’s heart’s racing and his breath is coming too fast, and Brendon’s hand keeps moving higher, taking the hem of Spencer’s cargo shorts with it. Spencer forces his gaze back to the television, focussing hard on the description of mummification. There’s this line they’ve been toeing, and so far, Spencer’s wilful ignorance of their situation has served him pretty well. Pretend he doesn’t notice what’s going on, and Brendon eventually stops pushing. 

Only Brendon’s not stopping. He reaches Spencer’s boxers, and Spencer can pick out bits and pieces of what he’s writing, _want – suck – cum – my mouth_. Spencer let’s out a shuddering groan. He shifts, sliding lower on the couch and it isn’t until Brendon meets his gaze that Spencer realises he’s given up pretending not to notice. Brendon draws a question mark and taps his finger over and over on the dot. 

“Brendon?” Spencer whispers. _He_ doesn’t even know what his tone is. 

Brendon licks his lips, strokes his hand over the curve of Spencer’s thigh, along the sensitive skin, higher and higher. Spencer’s hips make an abortive jerk upwards. _let me_ , Brendon writes. Spencer lets his legs fall apart, one hanging off the edge of the sofa, and gives a shaky nod. 

Lightning quick, Brendon’s hand is out of Spencer’s pant leg and working open his fly. Spencer’s already sort of stupidly turned on. These days Brendon doesn’t even have to be writing _on him_ , sometimes Brendon’s just scribbling in his lyric book, and Spencer gets hard watching him. 

Brendon reaches through the slit in Spencer’s boxers, and the first touch is electric. Spencer sucks in a harsh breath and lets it go on a moan. Brendon gives him a smirk and gingerly pulls out Spencer’s cock. His hand wraps tightly around the base and without preamble he leans right down, licks over the head twice and swallows Spencer all the way down. 

“Fff… _Bren_ …” Spencer pushes his hips up and tries to breath out an apology, but Brendon just moans around his mouthful, the sensation rumbling through Spencer’s entire body. 

It’s just…Brendon knows what he’s doing. Like _really_ knows, like he’s somehow studied Spencer’s masturbation sessions or spied on his previous blow jobs, or read his mind or some shit. He knows _exactly_ what Spencer likes. The way he presses his lips tightly and slowly sucks, with his tongue curling along the underside. Or they way he’ll pull off to trace the tip of his tongue along Spencer’s balls. Or the way he twists his wrist as he goes up and down, and each time Spencer feels a jerk in his gut like he’s about to come already. 

And through it all, Brendon’s just _watching him_ , eyes fixed on Spencer’s face, and Spencer is seriously pretty sure he’s never seen anything this fucking hot in his life. Brendon’s mouth wrapped around him, lips swollen and red, Spencer’s cock slick with his spit, his eyes dark and wide. Spencer runs his fingers through Brendon’s bangs, pushes them out of his face and lets his hand rest there and Brendon pushes his head into the touch. 

Brendon goes all the way down again, sucking harder. He palms Spencer’s balls, rolling them in time with the broad swipes of his tongue against Spencer’s cock. Spencer wants to keep watching, but he can’t make his eyes stay open. His head falls back against the arm of the sofa and his hips strain upwards, and Brendon never gags, just takes it in stride, lets Spencer just fuck his mouth and makes these obscene sucking sounds, and little moans like he’s _loving it_. 

“I’m—Bren, I’m gonna—” Spencer tugs gently at Brendon’s hair even as his hips thrust up again and again, rougher each time. Brendon’s hand smoothes over Spencer’s hip, and his fingers spell out words, but Spencer can’t focus enough to make sense of them. 

Brendon pulls all the way off and wraps his fist around the head of Spencer’s cock, stretches his mouth around the tip and sinks down, all the way to the base. Spencer’s coming so fucking hard he can’t hear over the roar in his ears, but he knows he’s babbling, hips bucking even though he can’t go any deeper, and he feels Brendon’s throat working around him, swallowing. 

Spencer pushes weakly at Brendon’s head, and Brendon leans back, humming contentedly. He sprawls out over Spencer’s lap, head resting on Spencer’s hipbone, and Spencer touches a light hand to his hair. Brendon reaches over the side of the sofa and when he settles back in place, Spencer feels the cool tickle of marker on his skin, just above the line of his boxers. 

He looks down and reads, upside down, _B.U. was here _. 

Even through the sort of overwhelming fear of what’s happening here, of what this means for them as best friends and as band mates, Spencer can’t help but smile when Brendon looks up at him expectantly. 

*

Brendon is sitting on Spencer’s bed when Spencer comes out of the shower. There’s a small box in blue brocade on the pillow and a dish of water on the nightstand. Spencer has to remind himself that Brendon’s seen him in a lot less than this towel covers, but things are _different_ now. 

“Come sit down,” Brendon says. 

“Let me put something on first,” Spencer says. 

He starts towards his suitcase, but Brendon says, “Don’t.” 

Spencer’s stomach swoops and his mind races with possibilities. He’s been thinking way too much the past two days. Brendon acted normally at the airport and slept on Spencer’s shoulder on the plane, and has pretty much behaved as if nothing strange happened between them, which? Is probably good, that he’s not making things weird. 

_Spencer’s_ making things weird. He knows it and can’t help it. Things have happened, and Spencer’s never been good at the whole beginning phase of a relationship—if that’s even what he and Brendon are _doing_ —without any cues from Brendon, he has no idea what’s going on between them. 

So he comes to stand at the side of the bed and Brendon rubs the comforter. “Lie down on your stomach.” 

It’s a little difficult to do with a towel around his waist, and when he tries, Brendon smiles wryly. Spencer can’t help but smile back, even though he feels his cheeks burning, and he lets the towel drop as he shifts into place. Brendon gives him an appraising look. Spencer tips his head forward to rest on his crossed arms, hair sliding over either side of his neck, arches his back, stretches his legs out. He’s still vaguely embarrassed, but he _wants_ Brendon to see everything. 

Brendon’s hand draws down the line of Spencer’s spine, touch light. His hands are always so warm; Spencer never minds, but it’s particularly nice in the chill of the hotel room. Brendon rests his palm in the small of Spencer’s back and leans his weight there as he reaches across to the box and pulls it towards them. 

“I found this in a gift shop earlier,” he explains. Inside there are several calligraphy brushes and sticks of ink in black, blue, and red, carved in fancy designs. It almost seems a waste to use them. 

Spence reaches out to run his fingers along the brushes, wonders how the fine, soft bristles will feel against his skin. 

Brendon leans down close. The fingers of his hand rub soft semi-circles in the lower curve of Spencer’s back. His breath is hot on Spencer’s neck. “I want to fuck you.” 

It takes a few minutes for that to fully sink in. Spencer’s used to having Brendon’s secrets traced into his skin, not spoken out loud. There’s really no mistaking it. He swallows hard and says, “Okay.” 

Brendon presses his smile to the nape of Spencer’s neck. He reaches out, hand covering Spencer’s briefly before taking the ink stone. He pours some water from the dish into and takes the black ink stick between his fingers, grinding it into the stone. The ink slowly thickens as Brendon draws the stick in tight circles. 

“I love your skin,” Brendon muses, as he sets aside the ink stick. His hands brush down either side of Spencer’s back, along his ribs and the curve of his waist. “So smooth.” He presses an open mouthed kiss against Spencer’s shoulder blade and follows the jut of it upwards with his tongue. 

Spencer’s cock is already stirring. He pushes down against the mattress and Brendon laughs softly. “I’m _getting_ there,” he says. And Spencer never thought he’d live to see the day that Brendon was telling _him_ to be more patient. 

Brendon straddles him, settling his weight on the backs of Spencer’s thighs, one hand braced on Spencer’s hip, and dips the brush in the ink. He drags the tip along the edge of the stone and the ink is thick enough that it doesn’t drip. 

The first touch of the brush to Spencer’s back is almost startlingly cold. His muscles tighten and Brendon holds the brush still until Spencer starts to relax again. It’s an altogether different sensation from the pens and markers. There’s almost no pressure at all and it’s difficult to follow the shape of the letters. The more Brendon writes, the more abstract it all feels—just the shock of wetness and then the tingling cold as the letters dry in the air conditioning. 

Spencer pillows his head in the crook of his arm and closes his eyes against the insistence of his arousal, the urge to hurry Brendon along. His body feels too restrictive, but Spencer focuses instead on the point where the paintbrush meets his skin. After the long flight and how much Spencer’s been over-thinking things, it’s so easy to give himself over to this, to just breathe, and let his body relax, let his mind drift. 

He’s fallen into the place half-way to sleep when Brendon stops writing and lays the brush along the base of Spencer’s back. “Did you write a song?” Spencer asks. He normally wouldn’t, and he doesn’t know what makes him ask. 

Brendon kisses him on one shoulder and then the other. “No,” he answers, then pauses. Pressed another kiss to Spencer’s spine, midway down his back. “Maybe.” He leans forward and Spencer can feel Brendon’s erection straining against his pyjama pants, tucked against Spencer’s ass. He pushes back against it and Brendon laughs a little breathlessly. His hand slips under the pillow and he pulls out a bottle of lube. 

“What did you write?” Spencer presses. The ink is almost entirely dry, and it makes his skin feel stretched tight. He wants to know. 

“Let me show you,” Brendon whispers. In the otherwise silence of the room, the snap of the cap opening is really loud. Spencer’s muscles seize up in anticipation, and then Brendon’s touching him. His fingers are slick with lube and warm. He probes between Spencer’s thighs, still held together, trapped by Brendon’s knees. He circles the ring of muscles and Spencer’s whole body twitches at the sensation, his mouth falls open on a silent moan when Brendon pushes inside with the tip of one finger. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Spencer hisses. He fights against Brendon’s weight, trying to spread his legs wider and Brendon makes an amused sound and shifts up onto his knees, lets Spencer adjust. The movement makes Brendon’s finger slip deeper and Spencer freezes for a second before working his hips back to take more. 

Brendon’s middle finger gently strokes at Spencer’s perineum. It’s almost too much when the finger inside curves and rubs against his prostate. Spencer bites down on his forearm to keep from crying out. Brendon’s finger slips free and more lube trickles down between Spencer’s cheeks. Brendon’s thumb works it inside and pulls out to trace the outer edge before two fingers thrust in, rougher and deeper. 

Brendon doesn’t have the same patience in this as he does in writing. He moves more quickly and hastily as he stretches Spencer open. There’s a slight sting when he adds three fingers; Spencer feels it burning up the back of his thighs, in the base of his spine. He makes a soft noise of discomfort and Brendon murmurs an apology, bites gently at the curve of Spencer’s ass. He pulls out and tries again, going slower. 

The stretch is still there, but the deeper Brendon works his fingers, the less Spencer actually minds. It isn’t enough to turn him off, just a little red haze at the edge of sensation. And then, before he knows what he’s doing, Spencer’s pushing back to meet each press of Brendon’s fingers, all but fucking himself on Brendon’s hand and Spencer’s face burns, but it doesn’t make him stop. 

“Let me,” Brendon starts, and his voice sounds lower than Spencer’s ever heard it. The bed shifts under Brendon’s weight as he gets up. “Let me get undressed.” 

Spencer looks over his shoulder, catches the black shapes that stretch down his back and watches as Brendon hurries to strip naked. His shirt gets caught up on his elbows and ears, and when he emerges his hair is a wild mess. He fumbles with the knot on his pants before giving up and wiggling out of them still tied, grabbing a condom from his pocket before kicking them aside. He gives Spencer a cheeky smile and climbs back on the bed, covering Spencer’s body with his and tucking his chin over Spencer’s shoulder. 

It strikes Spencer, as their lips meet, that they’ve never done this before. They’re doing this all out of order, but it _feels_ right. Brendon’s kiss is soft but insistent as he licks into Spencer’s mouth, marking him inside as well as out. He slips two fingers back between Spencer’s thighs and pushes in again. He fucks Spencer in the same rhythm he’s kissing him and Spencer’s whole body strains toward him, silently asking for more. 

“Okay?” Brendon mumbles. He kisses Spencer’s bottom lip, the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Spencer says. The truth is, he’s not entirely sure, but he’s not about to stop, either. He trusts Brendon, though, and Brendon has never betrayed that trust, so that’s good enough for him. 

Spencer watches while Brendon tears the condom wrapper open and rolls it down over his cock. Brendon shifts forward, knees pressed against the inside of Spencer’s thighs, and Spencer drops his head back down against his arm, hears the lube opening again. Brendon’s cock nudges at his opening and Spencer feels himself clenching down, makes himself relax. 

One of Brendon’s hands brushes up Spencer’s back, his thumb traces one of the words and Spencer holds his breath, refuses to let his mind interpret the letters as what he wants them to be. 

Then Brendon begins to push inside, and all the air leaves Spencer’s lungs in a rush. Brendon sinks slowly inside and it’s a heady, foreign feeling, being stretched open and filled, and the fact that it’s Brendon makes everything just that much more intense. 

Brendon rests when he’s all the way inside, chest against Spencer’s back, nose tucked against Spencer’s hairline and he whispers, “ _love you, love you, Spencer_.” 

Even though Spencer knows his answer, he doesn’t know how to give it. He lays his hands over Brendon’s where they clench at the comforter and Brendon loosens his grip, lets Spencer lace their fingers together. Brendon begins to move again. His lips part over the nape of Spencer’s neck, nipping and sucking, and he pulls back, almost all the way out before rocking his hips forward, burying himself. 

Spencer can’t stop the little cry that forces its way out of his throat, past his lips. His cock is so hard it almost hurts, leaking so much there’s already a wet spot. Each rolling thrust from Brendon makes Spencer’s cock drag against the comforter, but it’s not enough friction. Spencer works his hips forward, desperately for more and Brendon shifts his position, slips their joined hands under Spencer’s stomach. 

Their skin is damp with sweat wherever the touch, Spencer’s cock sticky with pre-come. Brendon wraps both their hands around him and jerks him off with that little twist in his wrist, making the slide that much easier. 

Brendon sits back, and Spencer can breath easier, it isn’t as oppressively hot, but he misses the press of Brendon’s skin to his. But Brendon’s knees nudge Spencer’s legs further apart, and when he thrusts back in, the angle is better, hits right against Spencer’s prostate and makes his jaw clench against the need to come. 

“I’m not—” Spencer pants. “I can’t last long.” 

Brendon bows his body over Spencer’s, presses his forehead against Spencer’s nape briefly, then bites hard at the same spot. There’s going to be a bruise, and Spencer already imagines touching it with his fingers to remember this exact moment. 

“Me either,” Brendon says. He’s found just the right rhythm that Spencer needs, the shallow, rough thrusts that hit just the right spot, and the fast, almost desperate jerk of his fist up and down Spencer’s cock. Then Brendon’s free hand moves over Spencer’s back, tracing words like _love_ and _mine_ and _truth_ and they sink into Spencer’s skin and deeper. He’s Brendon’s masterpiece, just awaiting the final brushstroke. 

Spencer comes with Brendon’s name on his lips, not as a plea or a thanks, but as a realisation. It shakes him down to his core and he closes his eyes against it, sees bright gold-white behind his eyes and feels it coursing along his nerves. He’s never come so hard in his life, and it just keeps going, made stronger by every thrust of Brendon’s hips. 

Brendon covers him again, working in deep, frantic motions that send aftershocks skittering up Spencer’s thighs and through his ass. He breathes across Spencer’s shoulder and Spencer turns blindly to meet his kiss. Their mouths bump and Spencer parts his lips, sweeps his tongue against Brendon’s, draws him in. He can feel Brendon’s orgasm building in the tension of his body, the desperation of his kiss, and when Brendon comes, it’s like he’s melting apart, bleeding all the stress away. 

Brendon slumps half on Spencer’s back, and for a minute Spencer thinks he’s going to fall asleep like that, and he doesn’t really mind. But Brendon shifts and rolls over, flopping on his back, and he takes off the condom, knotting it and tossing it aside. Spencer watches his movements transfixed by the smear of ink over Brendon’s stomach, shifting with his muscles. Brendon catches him looking and arches a brow. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Maybe,” Spencer says and reaches out, hand still slick with his own release. It smears with the ink, but he can’t think of anything to write. He doesn’t need to ask Brendon what he wrote anymore, or if he meant what he said. 

In the end, Spencer takes Brendon’s hand and lifts it to his own chest. Brendon’s wrist is slack in his grip and he watches Spencer attentively as he begins to spell out, _yours_. Brendon crosses the space between them, kissing Spencer fiercely before he can even finish.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much to my darling okubyo_kitsune, not only for making me feel better about this fic, but for cheering me on throughout this whole kink_bingo process and reassuring me that I could do it. And to my Muse, for being patient and awesome, and giving me totally wicked ideas for my squares, and for using me as her canvas. ♥


End file.
